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“Please take my letter,” says Dazai with a wide smile, tilting head to one side, adding more sweetness to the demeanor. Chuuya knows better, sensing that there's more than meets the eye behind his former partner's façade. There's a sharp intellect and cunning logic, with no difference between good and evil.
He sincerely doesn't understand why Dazai defected to the light side, leaving him wandering in ignorance for two long years, until one day just showed up at the Detective Agency. Partner's now happy and helpful, yet fake, just like his new image: a coffee-colored coat, striped shirt, and turquoise brooch that makes Chuuya want to pull it off and throw it away, and dress again in black, which suits Dazai best.
It takes great effort not to grab him by the shoulders and not to shake. He wants to shout at this laughing face to stop pretending to be a saint because Chuuya remembers, he knows. He's the only one who was always there, who witnessed the critical moments, and saw the darkness in laughing brown eyes. The one who caught Dazai's hand when he was shooting at a dead person, twisting lips into a satisfied and far from bright smile.
There's a lot of security around the headquarters, all worried about the appearance of one of the strongest enemies, but Dazai doesn't seem to intend to do anything criminal. He just stands there peacefully, holding a small envelope. The ivory-colored paper is thick and embossed, Chuuya's name is written on it in a flying handwriting.
"Are you giving me a letter from yourself?"
"Something like that," he laughs contentedly. "I wrote letters to everyone who left a mark on my life. I'm going to die soon and want to leave my last words."
"You're so freaking annoying with your stupid suicide attempts!" Dazai was supposed to stop such foolishness and switch sides for good, but he still continues to torture himself with bandages, swing in the river, and irritate everyone with his idiotic black humor. "What have you come up with this time?"
"Nothing. Everything is already done. That's why I'm in a hurry to give this to you." Unexpectedly, he takes out a few more letters from the inside pocket of his coat. "Will you give these to Akutagawa and the boss? At first, I thought of giving them personally, but then I thought it would be much easier to give them to you."
The smile becomes softer and for some reason... sadder? Dazai shakes his head, tossing chestnut bangs to one side, and for a moment, looks vulnerable. Wounded.
The heart skips a beat and contracts, anticipating something unpleasant: partner has never looked at him like this before. Chuuya looks back, unable to tear gaze away, trying to decipher the meaning of Dazai's words, but as always, he is impenetrable. It's like a closed book, except for the minimum that he allows Chuuya to read. Still, Chuuya notices an unhealthy blush on his pale cheeks as he takes a step closer, tilting head to scrutinize even more attentively.
"Done? What are you talking about?"
He himself is surprised by the anxiety in his voice. As if he has some business with whether Dazai kills himself or not. But the accelerated pulse suggests otherwise, as do suddenly sweaty palms - Chuuya really cares, he really has a stake in it.
"I'm already dying," Dazai nods carelessly, laughing even more happily. "It's a matter of a few days. I didn't want to experience pain, but fate decided otherwise. It's even better than double suicide, more romantic," he dramatically raises his hand and presses it to his forehead. "Oh, much more romantic. So, will you take the letters or not?"
Irritably clicking his tongue, Chuuya extends his hand. He wants to seem indifferent, but forgets to even breathe when Dazai's fingers touch his own, smooth and soft. The paper that replaces them still retains the warmth.
Dazai nods briefly, and again something clicks in brown eyes, something vulnerable, something farewell, and then he slowly turns and walks away. He leaves Chuuya, who hates looking at his back, hates being alone without him.
That's why he quickly stuffs the letters into the coat pocket and hurries after him. He catches up with his insufferable partner, looking at the face that is now covered in a strange dark shadow. He clearly did not expect to be seen, but quickly pulls himself together again.
"What did you do? Did you take poison?"
They continue walking somewhere, the pace becomes a bit faster. Dazai chuckles.
"Wrong. Do you want to play a guessing game?"
"What if I guess correctly? Will you tell me?"
"What do I get out of it?" he exhales with pleasure, squinting his eyes from the blazing sun. "Will you fulfill my wish?"
Their hands are so close that they almost touch each other. Chuuya is almost eight inches shorter in height, and he has to adjust, walking wider than he usually would. Dazai looks down at him and seems amused. Is he pretending or really glad that Chuuya followed him, prolonging their time together?
People around them hurry by, it's almost eight a.m. - the most common beginning of the workday. Perhaps they, too, look like they're in a hurry to get to work, at least he wants to think so. That they're still friends-mafiosi and not sworn enemies.
"Okay," he agrees, "but within reason."
"When have I ever been unreasonable?" Dazai comically rounds his eyes. "Well, what are your options?"
"Did you hire a killer?"
"No."
"Someone's gift?"
"Pass."
"Illness?"
"Exactly," this time there's no smile on his face. "Now you have to fulfill my wish."
Chuuya is already opening his mouth to object, but the bandaged hand stops him. Dazai's expression is frozen, like a frame from a movie:
"You can no longer ask me about it."
"But..."
"I have to go."
With these words, Dazai quickens the pace, while Chuuya, stunned and speechless, stumbles in place. For a very brief moment, he sees Dazai's features distorted by pain, but partner is already far ahead, and nothing can be said for certain.
Only the ache that Chuuya is experiencing is quite obvious. Dazai is important to him, he realizes with unexpected clarity, and the realization that he is fatally ill knocks the ground out from under him, making everything in his chest contract.
Biting his lip, he stops and pulls out a letter from his pocket. He puts back the ones intended for Akutagawa and the boss, leaving his own, and with a sharp movement, he opens it. Inside the enclosed sheet are two short sentences: "Love is a wonderful feeling. I hope someday you will experience it."
Another riddle? Why is Dazai talking about love? Of all people, with him?
He doesn't understand anything again, and he runs after Dazai, catching up, feeling that if he lets go now, he will never see him again. He is gripped by such horror that he doesn't even realize how he grabs his hand.
Dazai stops so abruptly that Chuuya crashes into his back, but instead of recoiling, he stays in place, hugging him with the other hand and pressing cheek between shoulder blades. Dazai's heart beats raggedly, wildly, as if about to jump out of the chest.
"You read it," Dazai says, noticing the crumpled sheet in his clenched fist, and then suddenly gasps for air: Chuuya hears wheezing and rasping, gurgling in his chest. Dazai bends over and coughs violently, almost choking; pushing Chuuya aside, he pulls his hand away and presses palms to the lips, trembling with retching spasms.
When it's all over, he removes his fingers, and Chuuya sees blood and orange flowers on his palms.
"Calendula," the words sound like a sentence, "a symbol of grief and despair."
He continues to gaze at the petals, and inside, a knife seems to be twisting. It becomes clear: Dazai is sick with hanahaki, sick with unrequited love, that's why he wrote about it in the letter. Someone is not responding to his feelings, rejecting him, so he will die in a few days.
"A flower of ten thousand years," the smile on his bloody lips looks surreal. "That's how much I would love if I wasn't dying so fast. It's even funny."
But Chuuya doesn't find it funny at all. He meets Dazai's gaze and frowns: how can he accept this situation? Just suffer, waiting for death? He wants to go and beat the fool who dares not to accept Dazai's feelings. How can anyone reject someone like him? Unique. Smart. Captivating.
Heat engulfs his cheeks. He shouldn't be thinking about this, but he can't lie to himself that Dazai is handsome. Truth be told, Chuuya hasn't met anyone more special.
"And it's also a symbol of loyalty and constancy. Such an ambiguous thing, right? And its color is reddish, like your hair."
Like your hair.
"Can I ask you for one more wish?" Dazai steps closer and grabs Chuuya's chin with his fingers. "I told you about my illness myself, so it's only fair. Can I... kiss you?"
With his heart pounding, Chuuya looks into the dark piercing eyes. Realization passes through him like an electric shock, and he inhales sharply, as if suddenly finding himself underwater.
He doesn't have time to react because the thin lips are already approaching his face, eyes are closed, and fluffy lashes tremble. This kiss is soft and innocent, just a gentle touch of lips, but even this fleeting touch sets ablaze the fire inside Chuuya that he had no idea existed.
When Dazai starts to pull away, Chuuya doesn't let him: he grabs the back of his neck and decisively pulls back. He sticks out a tongue and licks the blood from the corner of Dazai's lips.
"Chuuya," a stunned whisper, in which disbelief and hope are mixed.
"Ten thousand years," he says. "You promised."